Chapter 7 

Hurrying to freshman orientation in a steady rain, Jerry stopped; it was not for the giant fallen tree which lay in the quad, but a baby sparrow. He stooped over to get a closer look. The bird lay on its side, chest heaving, eyes unmoving. He ripped off some nearby branches, crafted four sticks each a foot long and placed them around the bird to form a square. Hopefully, others would take note and avoid stepping on it. He wondered what else he could do. 

A peal of thunder snapped him out of his diversion. He was late. Soaked, he leaped across a puddle, failed, lost his flip flop, retrieved it, wished he had an umbrella and finally arrived: Mackay Center. Barefoot, he dashed down into the basement.

“Is Jerry Cradleman here?” inquired Art Byers, Director of Student Relations, from the podium. 

Jerry raised his glistening hand. “That’s me.”

“Your father asked me to make sure I introduce myself to you. Come up and say hello after this.”

In the back of the room, Jerry hunkered down onto the floor and leaned against the wall. His sunshine yellow shirt clung to his now freezing skin — The air conditioning was way too on. – as did his frayed shorts. In contrast, his sun bleached hair frizzed out like a fright wig.

A wispy woman with coiffed gray hair marched over and handed him a packet that included a “Hi, My Name is” sticker. He wrote down his name which promptly smeared from the water dropping off his hair. He crumpled the sticker into a ball.

“You need to put your name label on,” the woman hissed, yet with a smile. 

.

Jerry smoothed out the illegible label and pressed it onto his shirt. It wouldn’t stick, so he tucked it halfway into his breast pocket. Rules, Jerry thought with a sigh. Here we go.

“These are going to be some of the most meaningful years of your lives,” said Dr. Byers. “While you are here you will question everything, your calling, your faith, your future, who you are and who you are to become. We encourage that introspection. For when all is done, and when you are handed your diploma, we expect each of you to be beacons of light set upon a hill for all the world to see.”

Jerry liked the part about questioning everything and working on faith. However, standing all alone atop a hill for all the world to see? Uhhhhhh…he was definitely not yet ready for prime time.

Thunder grumbled in the distance as people headed out. Jerry remained behind to introduce himself to Dr. Byers.

“Because of your acceptance on such short notice,” said Dr. Byers, “there are no more rooms available in the dormitories. So we have made special arrangements for you to be housed in the home of Professor Beker.

“My door is always open to you,” he said. With furrowed brow, he eyed Jerry up and down. “I’m sure your father is proud.”

It sounded like a question.

*** 

Dr. Christian Beker was the distinguished Richard J. Dearborn Professor of New Testament Theology and author of many highly regarded books on Romans and Pauline theology. Born in Holland, during the Nazi occupation, his Jewish family hid but were caught and sent to Auschwitz. While other boys played soccer, Chris sidestepped dead bodies. While other boys hugged their moms, Chris never saw his again.

After the war, he emigrated to America, converted to Christianity and matriculated at Princeton University. He earned a chain of degrees including two Ph.D.’s along with a bounty of academic distinctions.

 Rarely did he leave the university campus. He was the equivalent of a gym rat. Despite having all the usual trappings of a professor, all were slightly off. He wore a tie and jacket, yet the tie was perpetually crooked, the shirt wrinkled, and the jacket spotted. His goatee was smartly trimmed, yet the rest of his face went unshaven for days at a time. He was married, yet his wife was 40 years his junior. He associated with the students, yet he crashed their parties. And his dance style looked like a seizure. 

Yet he was brilliant. His was the class not to be missed. His specialty was Romans, and his passion for the subject was infectious. His eyes burned with the fire of academic polemics. His lectures were half exposition, half rant. Known by students as the Joe Cocker of lecturers, his hands flailed through the air as he exhorted in a too loud voice. All the while, he prowled the aisles. At any given moment he might pounce onto a terrified student, shove his face up close, and demand an opinion. And it had better be original. A rote response was spat out like rancid meat. 

***

That evening Jerry was shown upstairs to his room by Chris’ wife Terry. It was more like a nice-sized closet. Professional journals, books and papers lay strewn about his twin bed. He hung his clothes in a narrow closet, the hardwood floor complaining about every step he took. Into a desk drawer, he tossed his socks and underwear.

When he finished, he sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the sides and looked out the one window. Across the street, through a bedroom window, he could see two young boys in their pajamas roughhousing. Their mom came in, quieted them down, gathered them beside her on a bed and read to them from a large picture book. 

Jerry sighed.